Should
by Yami no Ryu
Summary: Belle loses her infant during childbirth. Oneshot.


_It is only possible to live happily ever after on a day-to-day basis._

_Margaret Bonnano_

"Push, Belle, push!"

"I'm PUSHING! UGH!"

The half-pained, half-enraged scream echoed through the desolate stone halls. Frightened menfolk hid with their women lovers. Some of the women were frightened, clinging to their equally terrified men, and some were sympathizing with Belle's plight. Childbirth was never easy.

Vincent stopped pacing his room, half-way across the castle, to shudder.

"Did you go through that with me?" a wide-eyed Chip asked his mother, left hand entwined with his mother's right.

"I do believe I had an easier time of it," Mrs. Pottes said, pursing her lips. "Poor Lady Belle. And she's early, as well."

Another cry resonated down the hall, cutting off abruptly. The castle was silent, as if holding its breath. Had something happened to Belle, or to the child? The castle seemed to sigh as the next angered/pained screech rushed through passages and wrapped around stairs to reach everyone's pricked ears.

"Breathe, breathe," the midwife said calmingly, "relax." There was not much else she could do to dissipate the pain, but the contractions were coming quicker, and lasting longer. The birth was a little early, thought the midwife with a crease of her brow, and the labor was hard and long, though that was not unusual, and Belle was young and healthy. So, concluded the midwife, the baby _should_ be fine.

'Should' being the operative word.

After nearly thirty-one hours in labor, Belle gave birth. The baby's lips were tinged blue, and the midwife strove to hide her worry. The mother was laying against the thick white pillows, eyes closed, breathing fast, but not labouredly. The midwife dismissed the mother as fine and turned her attention to making sure the newborn lived.

From the moment she started, the midwife knew she was fighting a losing battle. The infant's breaths were irregular, sometimes pausing for seconds before the little thing would give a shallow gasp. The air gurgled in the young child's lungs.

Belle had opened her eyes, fear making them wide and dark. She was watching the midwife avidly, heart weeping. She prayed fervently that her firstborn would survive. In some dark corner of her mind, she knew it would not be.

Please, please, she begged silently, beseeching whoever was listening—be it God or the Devil—let my baby live. Let it live!

The infant stopped breathing all together.

The midwife tried to coax life back into the child. After a few minutes, the warmth in the little body in her hands began fleeing like so many dreams, and the midwife gave up.

"It's a girl," she whispered. She wrapped the child in the white cloth folded on the small table next to the bed. It had been set there to swaddle the baby. Now it was the child's death shroud.

Belle lay in shock. Her mind could not accept what happened. It could not be. Her child could not be the one wrapped in the white cloth, could not be the one cooling on the table, could not be the stiffening bundle the midwife had set down. This was all a terrible mistake. She had not given birth: she was asleep and dreaming. Having a terrible nightmare. In a moment Vincent would shake her awake, ask her with kind eyes why she was weeping so, and cradle her as she fell back asleep.

But no.

That was her baby, the one she had carried for nine months. The one she had strove so long and hard to bring into this world. That was her baby, the one that had left scant minutes after she arrived.

That was Belle's infant, lying on the table.

She was too tired to cry the sobs that caught in her throat. All she could do was stare at the bundle, looking like so many discarded sheets.

Vincent came in then, panicked and disbelieving. The midwife led him silently over to the object of Belle's blank gaze, unwrapping the cloth to show the father his child's face. He caressed the cold, smooth skin before covering the dead child again. He was at his wife's side in a moment.

"Belle?" he questioned anxiously. Belle didn't even blink. He tried again, "Belle?"

Her eyes moved slowly from the babe to Vincent's face. "She's dead," Belle said hollowly.

Vincent, eyes bright with tears he would shed later, when he was ensconced in a private room with nobody needing him to be strong, sat down next to her. He wrapped her in his arms, willing his strength into her suddenly-frail, suddenly-delicate frame. She took his strength.

And with it, she wept.

Her cries were not the wracking howls he expected, nor the half-shrieks of why and let me have her back. Belle wept quiet, choking sobs that shook her body and echoed loudly in the too-still room.

And when she was done, her body stealing her exhausted mind into unconsciousness, Vincent went into another room and cursed the heavens for taking his little girl away from him.


End file.
